


My Cup Runneth Over

by adelaide_rain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baristas, Canon Compliant, Coffee Shops, EXCEPT that is is not in fact an AU, Evil Plans, Fingerquote evil anyway, Fluff, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-05-28 04:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: After getting inconveniently discorporated, Crowley is in both a new body and Hell’s bad books. He comes up with a truly diabolical plan to impress them, one that involves decaf (shudder).The plandoesn’tinvolve realising that he’s in love with Aziraphale.It happens anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

Being discorporated is definitely not Crowley’s favourite thing. 

First of all there’s the actual process - which, _ouch_ \- and then there’s the paperwork. 

Above and Below, the _paperwork!_ Repeated questions, questionable questions, questions about questions twenty pages ago that didn’t make sense in the first place, and in the end it doesn’t matter because you still have to sign the bloody thing if you want a new body. And then, once you’ve spent literal weeks filling everything in, the contracts department takes months to process it, because _of course_ everything in Hell has to be hellish, it’s right there in the name.

Crowley spends most of those months in his snake form, hiding behind cupboards and under desks and generally doing his best to ensure that no-one can find him to ask awkward questions about how, _exactly,_ he started World War Two. 

Also, sleeping. 

It’s four months after being discorporated, almost to the day, when a demon with a lot of eyeliner and really impressive eyelashes wakes him by poking him with a pen. 

“Oi,” says the demon. “Your new body’s ready. Back to work.”

Crowley groans, because it’s expected of him, but he _cannot wait_ to get back up to Earth. 

He signs for the body without paying too much attention, and rushes to gets topside before anyone of importance notices him, so it’s only when he gets back to his flat that he notices anything amiss.

As he steps through the front door and tries to relax, he notices that the new body doesn’t fit quite right. It’s like a too-tight shoe. He stretches and bends, trying to work out the kinks, and heads to his bedroom with its full length mirror to see what’s wrong. 

His steps slow as he walks through the plant room. Despite more than four months away, the plants are somehow as lush and verdant as ever, perhaps even more so. He narrows his eyes at them, then notices a new plant mister tucked between a couple of monsteras. 

It has a cheap-looking tartan pattern printed onto the plastic.

Crowley’s lips twitch. 

He continues onto the bedroom, and when he looks in the mirror he sees a stranger. 

_Damn it._

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the new body - it’s healthy and handsome - but a few thousand years in the same body and you get accustomed to it. He could change it back, but Hell gets annoyed when you do that, especially so soon; they take it as some sort of insult about their craftsmanship.

Well - it isn’t so bad, Crowley thinks, looking at it from various angles. The important bits are the same: tall and skinny, dark hair and good cheekbones. And, of course, the snake eyes. Crowley stares at those, then stalks over to the dresser, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from the drawer and sliding them on. 

As a whole, the new body will do, for now. Hell will be paying close attention to him for the first few weeks, making sure he’s not getting into any trouble - or at least getting into the right kind of trouble - so he’ll stay under the radar. Once they back off, he’ll change it back.

For now, best to look like he’s being productive. 

He heads outside. Walking among humans is usually the best way to find inspiration. They’re so good at fucking themselves over that the easiest thing to do is take something they’re already doing and rip the knob off. 

It’s early morning, prime commuter time, with a pale blue sky streaked with ribbons of candy floss clouds. Lovely, if you bother to look up, but no-one does. Most of them have mournful why-isn’t-it-Saturday looks about them, or just-got-off-the-tube glares. 

A line spills out of Starbucks onto the street, and as he looks at it, Crowley feels a plan beginning to form in his mind, still nebulous but there’s definitely something there. 

“They‘ve only got bloody decaf,” snarls a man as he storms out of the shop empty handed, and there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the sleep deprived queue.

The plan starts to solidify. 

Crowley walks along the Thames for a while, down South Bank, and notices just how many people have coffee cups. As well as the commuters desperately wishing for the day to be over before it’s begun, there are jet-lagged tourists and students with eye bags like bruises. All of them are utterly dependent on caffeine to function. 

He crosses Waterloo bridge and thinks about coffee, about caffeine. About decaf coffee, and how the very idea of it irritates so many people, especially those whose lack of talent lends itself to stand-up comedy. 

In Covent Garden, he passes Starbucks and Costa and Pret and Nero; passes little independent places and supermarkets with machines making promises they can’t keep about their coffee being just as good as barista-made. 

And as he passes a place that announces itself to be not only a coffee shop but a roastery too, he notices a sign in the window that they’re looking for a new barista.

Crowley smiles like a snake. 

===

It’s not hard to get the job. 

After all, he’s been fudging paperwork for millennia, and he’s been charming people into doing what he wants since the Beginning. 

And so less than a week after he saw the sign, he’s standing in the coffee shop wearing a black apron and a name badge that says _Anthony_. 

The coffee shop itself is painfully hipster: tall ceilings, natural wooden floors, grimy windows. There are tiny little chairs and tables barely large enough for two cups of coffee; else there’s long communal tables where you will be forced to knock elbows with the most obnoxious person in the vicinity, vastly increasing the likelihood of spilling your eye-wateringly expensive coffee over your vintage shirt. 

It’s perfect. 

To the left of the counter, behind a glass wall, huge metal drums roast coffee that is served not only here but all across London, and sold in stores, too. It’s the perfect location for Crowley’s plan, which is beautiful in its simplicity: secretly decaffeinate all of the beans and bask in the glory of the uncaffeinated masses, who’ll be shitheads to other people, who’ll take that out on even more people... 

The best job is the one where other people do the hard work for you.

But before he’s allowed in the roastery, he has to learn how to be a barista. To barista? Is it a verb? He doesn’t know. But he _does_ now know how to make an espresso, and a latte. Shobana, a young woman with long black hair and flawless make-up, is showing him how to make a cappuccino. 

“So, what’s with the sunglasses?” She asks, fluttering her eyelashes at him. She’s been doing that all day, it’s quite distracting. At first he thought she had something in her eye.

“Photosensitivity,” he says, and hopes she doesn’t ask any more questions because that’s as much as he’s read up on it. “Plus,” he adds, with his most charming, most distracting smile, “They look _really_ good.”

“They do!” She agrees, and hands the customer their cappuccino before tucking her hair behind her ears and biting her lip at him. 

She’s flirting with him, he knows. He’s not _that_ dense when it comes to human mating rituals; he’s not Aziraphale. It’s the new body’s fault. It looks like it belongs in a boy band. But Shobana’s crush is useful: it’ll make her more likely to stick up for him, should something go wrong before his diabolical deed is complete.

By the end of the day, not only does he know how to make every drink on the menu, but he knows how to make a leaf in the foam that’s only a little bit wonky. He’s rather proud of himself. Who would’ve guessed he’d make a good barista?

===

By the end of the week, Crowley hates coffee, he hates the cafe, he hates the black bean brownies, and he hates the customers most of all. 

Retail! 

Yet another example of humans coming up with evils Hell would never dream of. The next person who rolls their eyes at his wonky latte art is getting the drink thrown in their face. He’s so close to saying to hell with his diabolical plan. There are easier ways to mess with people. 

And yet, there are some things about working here that he’s found deeply satisfying: 

* Making the wrong drink and insisting that the customer did in fact order six shots of caramel syrup  
* Taking at least three times as long to make a drink as needed and smiling at the customer as they rap their fingers on the counter meaningfully  
* ’Accidentally’ giving people soy milk and seeing their expressions when they taste it  
* Giving Scottish notes as change

It’s the little things.

Finally it nears the end of his shift, with the promise of a long and glorious day off tomorrow. He plans to spend the entirety of it asleep. Crowley is glancing at his phone under the counter when he hears another customer approach. The thought that this might be the one he finally gets to throw a drink at cheers him, and he looks up with a smile. 

Oh, he thinks, and something in his chest contracts. 

It’s Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, who looks much the same as he has for the last few hundred years, changing fashions be damned. Aziraphale, with his kind eyes and curling hair, with his softness. He smiles and the thing in Crowley’s chest collapses under the weight of its own gravity until it’s like a white dwarf under his breastbone. He rubs at his chest, wondering if this new body has some kind of defect.

He waits for Aziraphale to ask what on earth he’s doing here, but instead he says, 

“Hello there-” He glances at the name tag, “-Anthony. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

A beat. Is it possible that Aziraphale doesn’t recognise him? The body is different but he should surely recognise Crowley’s demonic aura. Cautiously he says, “I’m new.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” He sounds like he means it. “Could I get a hot chocolate, please?” 

Crowley nods, putting it through the till before making the drink. As he does, he waits for the penny to drop - waits for Aziraphale to start laughing and say _I know it’s you, you wily old serpent_ or - or _something_. 

But he doesn’t. He genuinely doesn’t recognise him. 

Crowley supposes he shouldn’t be hugely surprised. Aziraphale has never been the most observant of beings. 

Handing over the drink, he realises he didn’t even consider making it with soy milk, even though he knows for a fact that Aziraphale wouldn’t have said anything in case it made ‘Anthony’ feel bad. 

Aziraphale sips the drink, then gives Crowley the kind of smile that’s always made him feel like he’s been punched in the stomach. 

“Why, this might be the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had,” he says, beaming. “You’re very talented.”

“I try,” Crowley says, then grabs the tray of brownies. “Maybe I could tempt you to one of these?” He puts emphasis on tempt, a not-so-subtle suggestion of who he really is. It goes right over Aziraphale’s head. 

“Ooh - you’re very wicked, Anthony,” he says with a chuckle, and for a moment Crowley is sure, _sure_ that Aziraphale is fucking with him, but then he’s getting his wallet out again and pulling out a ten pound note. While he’s getting his change, Crowley’s fingers pause on the Scottish fiver, but decides against it. 

“Here you go,” he says as he hands over his change. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you - sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Mr Fell,” Aziraphale says, sipping his hot chocolate and making a satisfied noise that makes Crowley’s stomach do something pleasantly uncomfortable. What is _wrong_ with this new body?

For a second - just for a second - Crowley almost breaks, but no - if Aziraphale really doesn’t know who he is… this has potential. 

“Mr Fell,” Crowley repeats. Centuries and he still hasn’t thought of anything better. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Are you a regular?”

“I suppose you could say that. I certainly will be, for this hot chocolate,” he says, and lifts his cup. “It’s devilishly good.”

Crowley stares at him. Is he fucking with him? _Is_ he? Aziraphale isn’t this good at pretending - right? If he _is_ fucking with Crowley, then he’ll be damned if he breaks first. 

“I try my best,” he says, with another smile, then steals the little lip-bitey thing Shobana has been doing at him all week. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mr Fell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens before Adam is born - 2007 or so. Yes, Crowley will get his body back. Yes, his new body can also have the little hair bun if you like ;)
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain) and sometimes on [tumblr.](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks later, the coffee is still caffeinated, despite Crowley’s grand, diabolical plan. The sleep-deprived denizens of London have Aziraphale to thank for that, and Crowley is starting to wonder if this is a very convoluted attempt by the angel to thwart his wiles.

He still has no idea if Aziraphale knows that it’s him in this new body or not, and he finds that deeply frustrating. Sometimes he’s entirely sure Aziraphale is fucking with him, but then he’ll turn around and act so convincingly oblivious that Crowley starts to doubt. And then that’s even more annoying because _Aziraphale doesn’t recognise him_. They’ve known each other for six thousand years and been friends for a good chunk of that. How in Heaven or Hell does Aziraphale not recognise him? Crowley is sure, completely and utterly certain, that he would recognise Aziraphale no matter what body he was inhabiting.

Which brings him right back around to thinking that Aziraphale must be fucking with him after all.

It’s very frustrating.

Even worse, his co-workers have started to notice.

“Alain told me that Mr Fell came in again yesterday,” Shobana says, smirking at him as she winds a lock of hair around her finger. 

Crowley looks over at her. “Yeah. He did.”

“He also told me you were flirting like mad.”

“Was not.” 

_Was,_ in fact. Crowley is trying everything in his arsenal to get Aziraphale to break first, and is currently trying over-the-top flirting. It’s not working but it is strangely fun. 

“Bit old for you, isn’t he?” Shobana asks, briefly turning her attention to a customer before returning it to Crowley. Now that she knows she’s not his type, she’s turning the effort she put into flirting with him into meddling with his love life instead.

“Not really.” They’re pretty much the exact same age, after all: older than the earth, older than time itself. He honestly has no idea which of them was created first, but when you’re talking geological timescales, does it really matter?

“He’s cute, though. And such a nice bloke.”

“Yeah.” Mostly, Crowley thinks, _mostly_ a nice bloke, as long as you don’t try to buy one of his books or even worse, threaten his bookshop. Crowley never did find out what happened to the idiots who tried that. 

“We used to only see him a couple of times a month, but - well, you remember someone who dresses like that. But he’s been in almost every day for the past couple of weeks, and he always wants to be served by you.”

“Of course he does. Have you _tasted_ my hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, Anthony,” she says, rolling her eyes and giving up on subtlety. “He’s coming in for the hot chocolate, and not because you’re a hot twink.”

He twitches. “I am not!” 

“You are!” Alain calls from the back room because he’s a bastard.

“Oh god,” Crowley says, and winces at the word as he drops his head into his hands. Crowley hates this, hates everything about it, but mostly the fact that they’re right. This stupid, _stupid_ body. If it didn’t mean he’d lose his unspoken bet with Aziraphale he’d change back right now and let Shobana and Alain try to deal with _that_. If it meant a brief but very threatening visit from Hastur or someone even worse, it would still be worth it. 

“Speak of the devil,” Shobana says, nudging him with her elbow. When Crowley looks up he sees Aziraphale walk into the coffee shop, and he smiles very warmly when he sees it’s Anthony on the counter. 

“So good to see you, Anthony,” he says. “And you, Shobana.” That’s a clear afterthought, and Crowley smiles meanly at her; she ignores it completely.

“Hello, Mr. Fell,” she says. “I hear you’ve got a bit of a thing for Anthony’s hot chocolate.”

“I certainly do! He’s quite the genius.”

“He is, isn’t he? You know, he was about to go on his break. After he’s made your drink why don’t you sit outside together? Since it’s such a nice day.”

Crowley glares at her - the effect is lost a bit with the sunglasses, but he thinks she gets the idea anyway. Her response is to smile, widely. 

Aziraphale looks a bit taken aback, but then he glances at Crowley and nods, smiling. “That sounds lovely.”

“Yes,” Crowley says glumly and sets about making the hot chocolate. When he’s done and hands it over, Shobana speaks up again. 

“Why don’t you go and get a table, Mr. Fell? Anthony needs to go and get some stuff from his locker.”

Crowley looks at her - he doesn’t have any stuff and none of them have lockers - but Aziraphale nods and heads cheerfully outside. Crowley turns to ask Shobana what she’s talking about, but she thrusts something into his hands. 

“Here,” she whispers at him. Looking down, he sees that it’s a battered old paperback of _Pride and Prejudice_ from her backpack. 

“What am I supposed to do with this? I don’t read books.”

“Don’t say that in front of Mr Fell! He owns a bookshop. He’ll be super into you if he thinks you read a lot.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “But that would be lying.”

“Exaggerating,” she says, and tugs at his apron strings, pulling it over his head before pushing out from behind the counter, leaving him feeling like he’s been swept up by a matchmaking hurricane. “You’re just exaggerating a bit to win him over. You’ve seen it on TV, right? Colin Firth in a wet shirt? Now go!”

Crowley’s been on earth for a very long time and experienced many things that the material world has to offer, but this? This is new. It makes him dizzy and off-balance. Shobana and Alain both give him a thumbs up, and when Crowley looks over towards the door, Aziraphale gives him a wave through the window. 

_What the hell,_ he thinks, and heads over to Aziraphale, book in hand. 

===

It’s interesting, chatting with an Aziraphale that either doesn’t know who he is or is pretending not to. 

He’s quite reserved and polite, though he gets quite passionate when he notices the book.

As Aziraphale talks about the finer points of Jane Austen with the precision of someone who was alive at the time, Crowley lets his mind wander. Nearly two hundred years ago, he and Aziraphake sat in a salon together. Aziraphale had a copy of Pride and Prejudice with him, and he had pressed it into Crowley’s hands. _You must read it, dear boy,_ he’d said, and even now Crowley can remember how that endearment had tugged at something in his stomach. So he had taken the book, protesting effusively but only because he felt it was expected of him, and he still has it. It’s carefully hidden away, of course - he has a reputation to maintain - but he still has it.

“Shobana said you own a bookshop,” Crowley says, sipping his iced tea, and Aziraphale nods. 

“I do. In Soho.”

“That must be amazing. How long have you had it?”

“Oh, it’s been in the family for two hundred years,” Aziraphale says breezily. 

_You little liar,_ thinks Crowley.

“It’s so nice to meet someone so into books,” Crowley says, and leans forward as if making a confession, biting his lip. “I love books, too. I’m doing a Masters in English Literature,” he adds, stealing Shobana’s backstory. 

“How delightful! What’s your favourite book?”

Crowley panics briefly, then puts a hand over _Pride and Prejudice_. “I’ve always been partial to this, to be honest,” and he has, but more for the person that gave it to him than the book itself. “I watched the TV show when I was younger, and the bit with Colin Firth in the wet shirt was - well, it was a bit of a revelation, to be honest.”

“Ah, yes,“ says Aziraphale. “The teleplay. Very well done. I don’t watch much television myself, but I watched that one at a friend’s flat.”

Crowley narrows his eyes at him. He knows, he was the friend. He had to suffer through six hours of Aziraphale pointing out things that were changed that he disapproved of, and things that were adapted _delightfully,_ and his thoughts on the casting, and the costumes, and the sets. He definitely didn’t find Aziraphale’s enthusiasm at least a little charming. 

And _this_ is why Crowley still has no idea whether or not Aziraphale is fucking with him. Because he keeps talking about things they’ve done together, with this soft smile that makes whatever is wrong with Crowley’s new body ache. 

Maybe Crowley just needs to step up his game. 

Luckily, he has just the thing, something he read in Time Out this morning while the bus was stuck in traffic (the Bentley isn’t Anthony’s style, and as for the tube: dark, too warm, hideously crowded, underground? Just the thought makes Crowley’s throat close).

“You know, I was thinking about going to this, ah, this literary themed cocktail bar,” Crowley says. “But I don’t really have anyone to go with. Maybe… maybe you might want to go with me?”

“I do like cocktails,” Aziraphale says. “And literature.” 

Crowley knows - it’s the perfect temptation. He smiles, too, as charming as he knows how. He almost reaches across the table to touch Aziraphale’s hand, but the gig would almost certainly be up if he did that, Aziraphale would definitely be able to sense his infernal nature. But still he wants to do it, and he’s quite surprised by just how much. 

Aziraphale purses his lips as though it’s a hard decision, but Crowley knows Aziraphale, he knows temptation, and that’s why he knows Aziraphale won’t say no. 

“Alright, Anthony,” he says. “I’d love to.”

 _Of course you would,_ Crowley thinks, and feels that warm fuzzy feeling of a temptation gone right. The feeling of panicked butterflies in his belly is new, but he puts that down to this weird new body. 

“Then it’s a date! When are you free?”


	3. Chapter 3

Alain made Crowley promise that he’d dress up for his date with Mr Fell. _It’s not a date,_ he’d insisted, but he decides to dress up anyway. Why the hell not, right? 

He spends a while trying to think about what someone doing an MA in English Literature might wear to go out for cocktails, and after a few attempts he nails it: a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the top button undone; a narrow black tie; tight black trousers; and black oxfords, slightly battered, with red laces. 

_Looking good,_ he thinks as he looks in the mirror, then with a snap of his fingers, adds a snake tie bar. 

Let’s see what Aziraphale makes of _that_. 

As he heads out to catch the bus, he frowns at the nervous butterflies flapping manically in his belly, trying to get his attention. He’s just having drinks with Aziraphale, something he’s done thousands of times. And trying to make Aziraphale break first in this little game they’re playing, that’s just for fun. Pitting themselves against each other is nothing new, they’ve been doing it off and on for six thousand years (albeit much more off than on). 

The bus turns up as soon as Crowley gets to the bus stop, as it usually does. The cocktail pop-up is in Shoreditch - of course it is - so Crowley settles in for a long bus ride. 

He’s had the day off work today and he’d intended to spend his day off sleeping and terrorising his plants, but Shobana messaged him about a website that promised to educate him about classic books by watching five minute videos about them. They’d been strangely addictive, and while Crowley doubts this knowledge will hold up under close scrutiny it’s good to have it in his armoury.

It also gave him what he needed to really nail down Anthony’s character: he’s gay, a bit mopey, and prefers older men because he finds people his age _so_ immature. Also? He’s _slightly_ pretentious. His MA dissertation compares work by writers in the closet to those out of it, and he’s precious about talking about it in any more detail until it’s written, because Crowley can’t be bothered doing any research. He wears mostly black, drinks cheap whiskey but wishes he could afford expensive scotch, but is also not opposed to cocktails. 

As Crowley sits there, gazing out of the bus window, he tries thinking about things the way an actor would - what’s Anthony’s motivation with this date? The answer is obvious and hits Crowley like a sledgehammer: he wants to get laid. 

By Aziraphale. 

Crowley makes a noise that makes the person sitting next to him edge away. 

Sex. With Aziraphale. Him, in this new body, and Aziraphale-

The thought makes his mouth dry, and he backpeddles away before he can get dragged in by it. 

He’s not- They haven’t- It’s not like Crowley is, generally, interested in sex with anyone. Like angels, most demons have to make an effort to even consider it, and Crowley has never been a fan of any kind of effort. He’s had sex a few times over the years, and it was fine, pleasurable enough, but he’s not even thought about it for centuries. 

So why, exactly, is the thought of Aziraphale, of him and Aziraphale-

No. He can’t think about it. He can’t even _think_ about thinking about it. 

He gets off the bus a few stops early, hoping the fresh air might clear his mind, but there’s no such thing as fresh air in central London, especially in July. Still, it gives him the few minutes he needs to convince himself that was an entirely normal reaction and definitely didn’t mean anything.

He arrives at the cocktail bar having calmed down, and sees Aziraphale is already there. Of course he is. He’s always been keen on punctuality, while Crowley (and apparently Anthony) prefers being fashionably late. 

Aziraphale is, of course, is wearing the same thing he always wears, and fondness swells in Crowley. He realises with a little despair that he may not be as calm as he had thought, and smiles helplessly when Aziraphale waves at him. 

“Hello, Anthony. Lovely evening, isn’t it?” 

“Hey,” Crowley says, reaching up to loosen his suddenly too-tight tie. “Shall we?”

They go inside, and it’s themed as an elegant private library. It’s dimly lit and Crowley doesn't have the best eyesight in the world, but he makes out dark wooden floors, lots of bookshelves, and battered leather armchairs around small, low tables. They find themselves an empty one at the side of the room. There’s a candle flickering on the table, and a leather bound menu with a cover designed to look like a book. 

“It reminds me of my shop,” Aziraphale says, looking around as he takes a seat. “A little.” He inspects a nearby bookcase and makes a face when he sees the titles - they’re all too modern for the angel’s old-fashioned preferences - and Crowley tries not to smile at his snobbishness. 

Crowley picks up the menu and glances through it. The drink names are mostly puns, or are other otherwise literary-themed. Crowley understands most of them, and not just because of the videos he watched - you can’t be friends with Aziraphale and not have _something_ rub off on you. 

“It must be a pretty fancy shop,” he says.

“I try,” Aziraphale says, and graciously accepts the menu when Crowley hands it over. 

Someone comes over to take their orders. Aziraphale goes for something called Dorian Gray, Crowley chooses Romeo and Julep - he’s always thought that some good puns would’ve infinitely improved the play.

“Good choice of drink,” Crowley says, once the server has left, and leans in like he’s confessing a secret. “I love Wilde, myself.” Love is a bit strong but Oscar always knew where to find the best parties, and that counts for a lot in Crowley’s book. He spent a lot of time in the late 1880s very drunk thanks to Mr. Wilde’s friendship.

“He was certainly a character, and a wonderful writer. I have a few first editions of his,” Aziraphale says. Crowley leans forward, eyes widening - a nice touch, he thinks, even if it’s hidden by the sunglasses.

“Really?”

“Signed, too, for - ah, my grandfather.”

“Wow!” Crowley says, grinning so he doesn’t smirk at Aziraphale’s terrible lies. “I’m writing about him for my dissertation. Partly about him, anyway.” 

“He lived quite the extraordinary life,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley wonders suddenly if Aziraphale knew him too. It was during the time they weren’t speaking, that long stretch of years between an argument about holy water and a reconciliation in a church. How odd, Crowley thinks, that the two of them might have known the same man separately. He almost opens his mouth to ask, then bites his lip, hard. “But he was wise, too. What’s that quote that’s often attributed to him? _Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”_

Crowley pulls back and narrows his eyes at Aziraphale, who looks back with a warm and apparently oblivious smile. But that quote, in this situation? How can it be anything but mockery? 

Crowley purses his lips, then breaks into a smile. He’s been worrying over whether or not Aziraphale knows who he is; maybe it’s time to flip the script and make Aziraphale doubt in return. Summoning everything he knows about Anthony, Crowley bites his lip and leans in a little closer.

“I do like myself,” Crowley says, sliding a hand down his tie. “I think there’s a lot to like.”

“I’m growing fond of you, too,” Aziraphale says.

Too late Crowley realises the fatal flaw in his plan, and his mood comes crashing down. 

Does he mean that he’s fond of Anthony, or Crowley? If he means Anthony, he’s only known him a few bloody weeks, but it took him millennia to grow fond of Crowley. It’s ridiculous to be jealous of Anthony, who a) doesn’t exist and b) is _him,_ but Crowley finds himself _furiously_ jealous of him. It’s so easy for him, isn’t it? All this- this making friends business, the flirting with Aziraphale like it doesn’t mean anything, or even worse like it could lead to something, because _Anthony_ isn’t a demon, isn’t unforgivable, unworthy of love, irredeemable-

 _Stop,_ Crowley thinks desperately, trying to rein in the downward spiral, and is grateful when the server brings their drinks over. He downs it immediately, making both the server and Aziraphale blink at him, and orders another as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks, sounding cautious, likes he’s afraid his new human friend might break. “Is everything alright?”

“Great, yeah. I just - uh. What were we saying?” 

“The Wilde quote. You were saying how you think you’re likeable.”

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley tries to regain his cool. “Yeah. Uh.”

 _You’re Anthony,_ he tells himself. _On a date. Flirt!_ He can deal with the rest later. Or never. Preferably never.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Crowley says, hoping he doesn’t sound as tense as he feels. He wishes he could flutter his eyelashes at Aziraphale like Shobana used to do to him, really hammer it home, but taking the sunglasses off would rather give the game away.

Aziraphale chuckles and tugs at his own lapels. “I do try.”

The new drink arrives, and Crowley drinks this one more slowly, finding that it’s both good and strong. He relaxes as they talk, feeling slightly embarrassed by the strength of that reaction and decides that the best course of action is to pretend it never happened. 

Aziraphale talks some more about books, and Crowley plays Anthony as utterly enchanted, hanging onto his every word. Luckily the angel likes to lecture, so he doesn’t have to pretend to know things: _mmm_ and _wow!_ are more than enough interjection. 

Besides, Crowley has always liked listening to Aziraphale wax lyrical, especially about books. There’s something deeply charming about listening to someone talk about their passions.

As he listens, and as Anthony looks at Aziraphale like he hung the moon (he didn’t; that was part of Crowley’s job), it strikes Crowley that not only has the coffee remained caffeinated, but he’s also doing a terrible job of trying to metaphorically trip Aziraphale up. He was planning on trying all kinds of different things, but for some reason he’s gotten hung up on the flirting. Shobana and Alain gave him some tips, most of which he’s ignoring, but tries a few as the evening goes on and they slowly work their way through the cocktail menu. As well as the lip biting, there’s tracing a finger around the rim of his glass, coquettish laughter, touching his lower lip… Aziraphale doesn’t seem to be picking up on any of it, which shouldn’t charm Crowley, but it does. 

They don’t drink as much as they usually do - Crowley because he’s pretending to be human, and Aziraphale - he supposes it’s the same for Aziraphale. _If_ he genuinely thinks Anthony is human, and Crowley still has no idea if he does.

It remains frustrating, but perhaps not as much as it was before. The edges are softened now, by alcohol and a night well spent, by the deep warm fondness that sometimes pushes past his barriers when he’s with Aziraphale. Crowley suspects that means something, but he adds it to the increasingly long list of things to not dwell on.

They get the bill and Aziraphale insists on picking up the tab since Anthony is a poor student. Crowley isn’t going to argue; making an angel pay for his drinks is the most diabolical thing he’s managed for weeks. 

They head outside to find that it’s cooler now, still warm but less humid. The streets are busy but not rammed, and they’re able to walk side-by-side. 

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” Aziraphale says. “My, ah, best friend is away on a - a business trip for a few months, so it’s nice to get out of the house, as it were.”

At first Crowley is so tripped up by _best friend,_ on the way it fills him with warmth and makes him feel like he’s floating, that he doesn’t notice how Aziraphale looks wistfully up at the few stars not hidden by light pollution, as though there’s any possibility that Crowley might be up there. And then he sighs, and the longing in his eyes is so clear and so strong that it feels like a gut punch. 

_He can’t be pretending,_ Crowley thinks, suddenly sure that Aziraphale genuinely doesn’t know it’s him. Aziraphale would never let Crowley see him this vulnerable. But if that’s true then this is true - Aziraphale _misses_ him, deeply.

Crowley looks at him and wants to touch his arm, wants to say, _It’s me, Aziraphale_ \- not in triumph but in comfort, with a warm smile to melt away his pain. Wants to add, _I missed you too._

But he shouldn’t feel like that. He _shouldn’t_ , dammit. Aziraphale is an angel. Crowley is a demon. He should delight in his pain. But how can he? Whatever else he is, whatever else they are, Aziraphale is his friend. 

He doesn’t need to breathe but he’s got into the habit over the years, and he takes a long, deep breath now, letting everything that’s happened tonight fade away. 

“That sounds tough,” he says, not looking at Aziraphale. “Not seeing your friend, I mean. For months.”

“Well. It’s not so long in the grand scheme of things, is it?”

“I suppose not, no. But I know what you mean. I - I haven’t seen my best friend in a while, either.”

“How lucky we found each other, then,” Aziraphale says with a smile that makes Crowley feel like his ribs have shrank. 

“Uh-huh,” he manages.

If he really were Anthony, Crowley thinks distantly, if he really were an idiot literature student with a desperate crush on a middle-aged bookseller and under the mistaken impression that this was a date, then he’d want to kiss Aziraphale. He’d really, really want to kiss him. 

If he were Anthony. 

“I, uh - I’m heading this way,” Crowley says, pointing in the opposite direction of Soho, suddenly needing to get as far away as possible. 

“Ah. Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” Crowley says, and pretends that the warm, smitten smile is Anthony’s and not his own.


	4. Chapter 4

“I still can’t believe you didn’t kiss him,” Alain sniffs.

“First of all,” says Crowley, “It wasn’t a date. Second of all, if it _was_ a date, it was a first date.”

“So?” Alain narrows glacier blue eyes at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re insisting on being traditional. Waiting to the third date to fuck him and such nonsense.”

“I’m not going to fu-“ Crowley catches himself on his outburst just in time - they are, after all, at work, and a barista shrieking about whether or not he’s going to fuck someone is hardly going to result in good Yelp reviews. 

Or maybe it will. Humans are weird. 

“If you’re going to try to tell me that you don't want him, don’t bother,” Alain says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and you’re not exactly subtle.”

“I-“ Crowley starts, but Shobana chooses that moment to appear from the back room. Crowley thinks this might be the first time he’s been grateful to see her. 

“Are we teasing Anthony?” She asks, looking delighted, and Crowley glares at her. He takes it back - definitely not glad to see her. 

“He keeps trying to insist he doesn’t want Mr. Fell.”

Shobana laughs. And keeps laughing. She pats Crowley on the back like he’s made a good joke. 

She wipes her eyes, gasping for breath, and grins at him. “What’s that bad joke about denial not just being a river in Egypt?”

He pouts at her. He’s found this body pouts very prettily, but now that Shobana has decided he’s not available, his prettiness no longer works on her. 

“Seriously, though,” she says, once she’s served one customer a soy half-caff macchiato and another a blended iced coffee with three different kinds of syrup. “We shouldn’t tease.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“But Anthony, the way you look at him, like he’s- like he’s-“

“Like he’s your sun and stars,” Alain says. “Like he’s your centre of gravity. Like the moment he walks into the room, he’s the only thing you see.”

Crowley opens his mouth to deny all of it, and finds he can’t. 

And then he notices the way Alain was looking at Shobana as he spoke; the way he’s still looking at her now, his gaze soft, his eyes gentle. Sun and stars indeed, Crowley thinks, and hopes that he doesn’t look as utterly smitten around Aziraphale as Alain does right now. 

Not that he would. Because he isn’t smitten. Anthony might be, but not him. 

“That was really pretty, Alain,” Shobana is saying, but Crowley finds he can’t pay too much attention to her because Aziraphale just walked in the door. He looks as he always does - dear, predictable Aziraphale - in cream and tartan, with pale blond curls. A smile like the sun at midday breaks free when he sees Crowley behind the counter. 

“Good morning, Anthony.”

“Hey, Mr. Fell.” The words manage to form despite the fact that Crowley’s mouth is suddenly drier than Death Valley. 

“How’s your day been?”

“Ah, good, yeah. I - did some reading on my lunch. For - for my MA. Uh.” Has it always felt this good to have Aziraphale pay attention to him like this? It’s probably an angelic thing, Crowley thinks, a little wildly. Having an angel focus his holy attention on you, or, or something. And Crowley didn’t notice it in his old body because - because of reasons. 

Shobana nudges him out of the way so that she can get to the blender, and Crowley suddenly realises that there are, in fact, things in the world other than Aziraphale. 

_Smitten,_ he thinks, followed by _Fuck,_ and a rapid spiral of panic that he quickly stamps down on. 

“So - your usual?” Possibly his voice sounds a little higher than usual. 

“Yes please.”

Crowley makes the hot chocolate, and as he does, he finds that the panic calms. This, he can do. A hot chocolate. He’s made plenty of them over the last month or so, mostly for Aziraphale, and he knows what he’s doing. Whatever’s going on with this new body, he can do _this._

“Are you nearly done for the day, Anthony?” Aziraphale asks over the sound of the frother. 

“Yeah. You’re my last customer, Mr. Fell,” Crowley says, and thank Go- Thank someone for that.

“Then I’m clearly just in time,” Aziraphale says, looking pleased with himself. When Crowley is done, and hands over the hot chocolate, he adds, “I was wondering - we were talking about Oscar Wilde the other day, when we went out for cocktails. And I happen to have a spare copy of one of his books, a first edition. I was wondering if you’d like it? For free, of course - it’s rather battered, but still a nice thing to have.”

Crowley stares at him, dumbfounded. Aziraphale offering to give up one of his books for _anybody_ is unimaginable. It makes him waver for a moment as to whether Aziraphale does know it’s him after all, except that he includes himself in that _anybody_.

“That’s - incredibly kind.” 

“Just pop over to the bookshop whenever you’re free.”

“Definitely-”

“He’s free now,” Shobana says, intervening and putting her hand on Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to hurt. “Aren’t you, Anthony? You were just saying earlier about how you didn’t have any plans this evening other than sleeping.”

“Sleeping _is_ a plan,” Crowley says - a plan Shobana keeps interrupting. Aziraphale chuckles. 

“You sound like the friend I told you about.”

 _BECAUSE I AM HIM,_ Crowley nearly yells, but Shobana is still squeezing his shoulder while tugging at his apron strings, and he’s vaguely aware of Alain giving him a thumbs up from where he’s collecting empty cups, and everything is a bit much, frankly. 

He goes to get his jacket out of the back room and once he’s pulled it on he takes some slow, deep breaths.

Why is he doing this? Why hasn’t he just decaffeinated the coffee and gone on his merry way, shifting back to his old body and either teasing Aziraphale about not recognising him, or never mentioning it again? Why is he still here, making coffees for ungrateful assholes and sniping about it with Shobana and Alain? 

The more he tries to think about it, the less forthcoming an answer is, except that this doesn’t feel finished. It feels like… something needs to happen. Crowley doesn’t read books, but over six thousand years he’s heard a lot of stories. He’s been _part_ of a lot of them. He knows how they go. And this one, Anthony’s story, it’s not finished yet. 

He is very aware of how ludicrous that sounds, but he is also very aware that it’s true. 

“You’re a bloody idiot,” he whispers crossly at himself and runs a hand through his hair, but he sighs and heads out to see how Anthony’s story ends. 

-

Things don’t go as expected, of course. 

If there’s one central theme of Crowley’s life, a throughline dragging him along since the beginning of time, it’s that nothing ever goes the way he thought it would. 

They talk in the cab over to the bookshop, and for a little while things feel almost normal. Aziraphale is telling him about a new delivery of books he’s received that Anthony might be interested in, but Crowley is too busy worrying at the thought that Aziraphale really doesn’t know it’s him. It’s like poking at a bruise but he can’t seem to stop. 

Why is it bothering him so much? Why does it hurt so much? 

Aziraphale is his friend - his _best_ friend, his only constant for six thousand years, and not being recognised hurts. Of course it does. But that doesn’t explain this ache in his chest that hasn’t let up in the last twenty-four hours. This is _different,_ but Crowley has no idea how to explain why or how. All he knows is that it hurts, and he wishes it didn’t. 

“Are you alright, Anthony?” Aziraphale asks as the cab comes to a stop outside the bookshop, and the softness in his voice makes Crowley close his eyes for a moment. 

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

 _Tell him,_ his mind whispers at him. _Tell him who you are,_ and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t. 

“I - I’ll let you know.”

Azirphale looks at him for a moment longer, then nods. “I’m good at helping,” he says. “Or at least, I will always try.”

Crowley thinks about Aziraphale helping, over the years: of the way he let Crowley talk when he needed to, or sat in silence by his side when he needed that, and his chest aches a little more.

They get out of the cab and Aziraphale makes a show of getting his keys out even though the doors will open at his touch - at Crowley’s too, for that matter, they started to recognise him sometime in the seventies. Once the door is open, he gestures for Crowley to go first with a flourish.

“After you.”

And as Crowley steps into the bookshop for the first time in months, he gasps. 

It feels… it feels like Heaven felt. Crowley’s memories of Heaven are tumbled and twisted, tainted by six millennia of bitterness, but the one thing he remembers clearly, the thing he longs for more than anything, is a sense of sanctuary. _This_ sense of sanctuary - peace and comfort and safety. The certain knowledge that nothing bad could ever happen here. Crowley’s lips twitch at the thought, but while Heaven reneged on that promise, the bookshop won’t. Because this is Aziraphale’s paradise, and Aziraphale is…

Crowley draws a breath and looks at him, pottering around the shelves, talking to Anthony as he tries to find the book. 

The pain in Crowley’s chest goes supernova, crushingly painful and blindingly bright, burning away the protective shadows he’s wrapped around the truth: he loves Aziraphale. 

The revelation glues his feet to the floor. 

Love. 

He’s a demon. He _can’t_ love. All of that was stripped from him along with his wings. But he _remembers_ love, remembers loving everything that was, remembers love as a default state of being. 

This is different, and not because he’s a demon. 

This is not that diffuse, all-encompassing love; this is laser-focused and consuming, this is _I would kill for you and I would die for you_ , this is _I would live for you and resurrect anything for you and consequences be damned_. But it’s also sharing a bottle of wine and laughing together; it’s lounging on the sofa playing Snake on his phone while Aziraphale sits reading in his well-worn armchair, not needing to talk but still finding comfort in the other’s presence. It’s smiling the way no-one else makes you smile. It’s an ache in his chest where his heart would be if he had one. It’s love, it’s love, it’s _love._

“Ah, here we are,” Aziraphale says, pulling him out of his whirlwind of revelation. He comes over to Crowley with a cloth-bound book in his hands. It looks old but well-taken care of, and is probably worth several thousand pounds, but Aziraphale is giving it to this early-twenties kid he barely knows without a second thought.

 _I love you,_ Crowley thinks numbly, looking down at Aziraphale’s hands as he offers him the book, gaze lingering on the golden ring he’s worn literally forever, and the pain in his chest flares. 

“Thank you,” he manages, somehow, and adds, “I don’t know what to say,” and those are the truest words he could speak. 

“Well, it’s a little battered - I have my own mint copy, so this should go to someone who’ll cherish it.”

“I will,” Crowley says. It will go right next to his copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. He looks at Aziraphale, whose smile makes him feel like his sternum is going to crack open. His lips part and words almost escape, but he slams his mouth shut with an audible snap of his teeth. He takes a breath, and forces out, “Thanks again, Mr. Fell.”

“Of course.” He pauses. “And like I said before, Anthony, if you want to talk about what’s worrying you, I’m a good listener.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Crowley says, and swallows, and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things: I found what I’ve decided [Crowley’s coffeeshop](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain/status/1144633278370078722?s=21) looks like, and the other day I passed the actual coffeeshop the one in this fic is based on [(the AllPress in Dalston).](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain/status/1149426082833190913?s=21)
> 
> And lastly: I just wanted to say thank you so much for all your lovely comments. I’ve been having a really hard time with various things lately and reading them has given me life. I’m so grateful <3


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley can’t sleep that night. 

Even though demons don’t need to sleep, he still feels like garbage when he gets into work the next day. The first six hours of his shift are excruciating, and not just because of the customers. Anxiety is like a morningstar swinging viciously around his chest, and every so often the thought _I love him_ will slide itself into the forefront of his mind and he’ll want to run away. He genuinely considers it a few times, just sprinting out of the coffee shop to somewhere, anywhere else, but he knows it won’t help. There’s no escaping himself.

Since he’s been on high alert all day, Crowley senses Aziraphale’s angelic aura before he steps into the shop. Without even thinking about it he runs into the back room, yelling “I’m not here!” at Shobana and slamming the door behind him. 

He sits at the table at the far side of the room, head in his hands.

What the bloody hell is he doing?

What the hell _can_ he do?

The questions circle round and around in his mind, but solutions are not forthcoming.

Five minutes later Shobana opens the door to the backroom and frowns at him. 

“I don’t like lying, Anthony,” she says. “Especially not to someone as sweet as Mr Fell.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, not looking up. “I just - I can’t deal with him right now.”

She pauses, glancing behind her to make sure Alain is alright on his own then steps inside, closing the door behind her.

“Did you guys break up or something?”

“There’s nothing to break up,” Crowley says, his jaw tight. He hates feeling like this, emotions spilling out everywhere, refusing to stay in the boxes he’s tried to cram them into.

“Anthony, he didn’t-“ she takes a step forward, worry creasing her brow. “He didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“Fuck, no, nothing like that.” The very idea of the angel doing anything to hurt him is unthinkable. He _should_ , that’s his job, but it’s not who Aziraphale is. Which, come to think of it, is just as true for Crowley. How undemonic of him.

“Then…?” She leaves the sentence hanging and Crowley should know better, he _invented_ temptation and there’s not much that’s more tempting than a silence begging to be filled. He should bloody well know better, and yet... 

“I just - it’s complicated,” he says, the words spilling out of him after barely half a minute of silence. “There’s just all this stuff, all these - these feelings, and I don’t know what to do with them. I can’t just _tell_ him, but if I don’t - I don’t know if I can-“

“Tell him what?”

He looks at her, hoping to look stern but fairly sure he’s coming across as desperate. He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you, either.”

She comes over and sits opposite him, shoving a pile of old magazines aside so that she can reach across the table to take his hands. She frowns at how cold his hands are - he is, after all, a snake demon - but her human mind glosses over it almost instantly; people _can’t_ be this cold, so what she’s feeling can’t be real. Crowley shivers; he’s not used to physical contact. He’s not used to people caring about him either, and it’s too much to try and parse that on top of everything else. For all her teasing, Shobana does genuinely seem to care about Anthony and want to help the lovestruck idiot, to help _him_. He can’t comprehend that any more than Shobana can accept how cold his hands are.

“You look like you’re going to explode if you don’t talk,” she says.

“Possibly. Quite possibly. I’m still not talking though. I’ll take the risk.”

Shobana sighs and sits back, folding her arms. “That’s it,” she says. “You and me are off to the pub when we finish work. You need a drink, and you _really_ need to talk.”

He does need a drink, but he has no intention of talking. 

Nevertheless, an hour and a half later he finds himself in the pub up the road, in a dark quiet corner with his second glass of wine in his hands. Shobana has been ranting about her classmates for most of that time and while Crowley doesn't know any of them and doesn’t want to, he figures it’s better to let her talk than wait for her to ask him to speak. He’s starting to hope that she’s forgotten the reason behind their after work drinks, but when is luck ever on his side? 

“So, come on,” Shobana says suddenly. “Tell me what’s going on with you and Mr Fell. What’s his name, anyway?”

Crowley shrugs. He has no idea what the A or the Z stand for. Maybe he should have asked at some point in the last two hundred years. 

She narrows her eyes at him. “You went on a date with him and still don’t know what his name is?”

Crowley shrugs again and Shobana sighs, sipping her beer before tapping her fingers on the glass. 

“But you like him.”

Another shrug, but it suddenly occurs to Crowley that he could just tell her. Let her be a sounding board, try to sort through all this _stuff_ crammed in his head. There’s no one else he can talk to about this, and he feels like he’s not-so-slowly unravelling - he needs to do _something_. His time-honoured tactic of repressing and kicking it desperately into a dark corner of his mind doesn’t seem to be working, so perhaps he should try something new. 

And Shobana isn’t teasing him now - she genuinely wants to help Anthony. She might only be twenty-three, but she’ll understand the whole romance thing better than he has a hope in hell of doing. 

He finishes the wine and goes to the bar to get another, picking up another pint for Shobana while he’s there. 

When he returns, she raises an eyebrow at him and he sighs. 

“You want the truth?”

She nods. 

“I’m in love with him.”

She sits back and stares at him. “Holy shit, Anthony.”

He nods. It’s a fair reaction, though not for the reason she thinks it is. 

“You don’t think it’s a bit soon?”

Crowley’s lips twitch. He has no idea when he fell in love with Aziraphale, but he suspects it wasn’t recently. “Not really.”

She takes a gulp of beer. “Alright. Well. How does he feel about you?”

Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Crowley has no idea. He’s fairly sure Aziraphale loves him because that’s what angels _do,_ loves him in that diffuse, ethereal way that Crowley vaguely remembers from before the Fall. But does he love him like _this?_ Can he? Crowley thinks about the way Aziraphale has been treating him recently, and feels a pang of despair at the thought that Anthony has more of a chance than he does. If Aziraphale can feel romantic love at all, surely it’s not going to be with a demon. 

And yet.

Very, very deep down, Crowley is an optimist. 

Maybe, a small voice says, maybe Aziraphale can love him. Almost certainly not, but _maybe._

“I don’t know,” he says aloud, and Shobana sighs. 

“He’s been coming to see you an awful lot. And he clearly likes you - I still can’t believe he gave you that book.”

“Neither can I.”

She gives him a very long, contemplative look. “What do you want, Anthony? With Mr. Fell? You love him - do you want a relationship with him? Are you looking for something long term?”

Crowley thinks about it. Long term, for him and Aziraphale, would be something Shobana couldn’t even begin to imagine. They’ve known each other for six thousand years already, and while he has no idea how long it might be before the next part of God’s ineffable plan is put into place, he imagines it’ll be a fair few centuries. The thought of centuries with Aziraphale by his side as more-than-friends makes Crowley’s very essence feel warm and bright, makes every cell of this corporeal body sing.

“I’d like that,” he says. It’s a bit of an understatement.

“You want my advice? Tell him. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, I’m pretty sure he’ll let you down gently.”

The idea of Aziraphale letting him down, gently or otherwise, makes terror screech in his mind, drowning out everything else.

“Yeah, but then I’ll have to see him again, and he’ll _know,_ and I’ll know he knows, and-”

“You think too much, mate,” she says drily. Her down to earth response startles the the terror into silence, and Crowley sits back with a snort. Shobana has no idea how right she is. She may be young, but she’s wise, and she continues: “Think about it this way: what if he _does_ feel the same way? What if he loves you too?”

Crowley’s heart soars and it feels exactly like flying. He swallows, feeling the space between his wings itching.

“It would be-” He searches for a word that comes anywhere near what it would be for Aziraphale to smile at him - at _him_ , Crowley, not at Anthony - and say _I love you too,_ and mean it in a way that’s only for Crowley. “It would be incredible,” he says, but that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what it would mean to him. 

“Then I think it’s worth the risk, don’t you?”

“Alright,” he says, feeling wildly reckless. “I’ll tell him. Tomorrow.”

“Nonono,” she says, leaning forward and shaking a finger at him. “You’ll wimp out. Tell him now. Go to his bookshop and confess. Pour your heart out to him right there, through the window if you have to.”

“You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”

She sighs. “Then take him out for dinner, or a drink. Take him somewhere nice. What does he like?”

“Crepes. Cake. Gravlax.”

“What’s gravlax? Never mind, I saw something about crepes earlier.” She pulls a battered copy of Time Out from her bag and flicks through it. When she finds what she’s looking for, she shows him a review of a creperie in Chelsea, on the banks of the river. The photos show it to be small but charming, with crepes that look delicious; the review gives five stars, talks about it being owned by a French guy and says it's better that most of the creperies in Paris. There’s even a voucher for twenty percent off. Short of hopping on the Eurostar, it sounds like the best possible place for him to confess his love to Aziraphale. 

He closes his eyes, trying to think sensibly over the light fog of alcohol and the jittery, discordant chorus of terror and desperate hope. If he’s doing this - and fuck, he thinks he just might be, he can feel the momentum now, dragging him along. If he’s doing this then he needs to do it now - Shobana’s right, he’ll wimp out otherwise. And he wants to know, wants to chase that miniscule maybe, wants to see if Aziraphale loves him back. He can barely even imagine it, Aziraphale giving him one of those blindingly brilliant smiles of his and saying _I love you too, Crowley,_ but it’s still enough for the hope to overcome his terror.

The sound of tearing paper makes him open his eyes, and he sees Shobana has torn the page out along with the discount voucher. She folds it up and then offers it to him. 

_Are you really going to do this?_ He thinks, staring at the proffered piece of folded paper. 

Swallowing, he takes it. His nerves are screaming at him but he can’t back down now. He needs to know.

He stands up.

Shobana claps and beams up at him. “I want all the gossip!”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley says, putting the paper in his pocket and heading out of the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part next week (possibly two parts, depending on how long the epilogue ends up being).
> 
> As a reminder, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain) (where I sometimes post previews!) and on [tumblr.](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

Three glasses of wine isn’t nearly enough to get a demon drunk, but he pushes most of the alcohol out of his system anyway. He wants to be sober for this – well, _wants to_ is pushing it a bit, but it’s the right thing to do. Without the confidence boost of alcohol, his steps slow but he keeps going, powered by the relentless jittery energy of his anxiety. Is he doing this? He is, isn’t he? What’s he doing, why is he doing this?

But then he imagines Aziraphale saying _I love you, too_ and the burst of hope propels him forward. 

Although he’s terrified, that hope glows like a star glowing dimly in his chest. He _might_ love him back, he might. And if he does, it would be worth anything.

Turning the corner he sees the bookshop and his steps falter. 

_Fuck,_ he thinks, terror making his knees weak.

Whatever happens, this is going to change everything.

He takes a breath, finds a handful of courage somewhere, and starts walking again. 

Crossing the street, he thinks _fuck_ again, and puts a hand to the door of the bookshop, pushing it open before he can think better of it. He steps inside and closes his eyes for a moment, that feeling of sanctuary washing over him again, dulling the sharpest edges of his fear. 

“We are closed!” Comes Aziraphale’s voice, sharp and annoyed, as he bustles out of the back room. “I swear I locked the doors-” He stops when he sees Crowley, and his annoyance is instantly replaced with a smile. “Oh. Anthony!”

“Uh. Sorry,” Crowley says. “I - I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner. With me. I have this-” He gets the coupon from his back pocket and waves it awkwardly, “-this coupon, for a crepe place, owned by this French guy. It’s supposed to be really good.”

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, glancing behind him at the no-doubt riveting work he has back there, but then he nods. “I would love to.”

They take a taxi. Aziraphale fills the silence, as so he often does, and Crowley half-listens, feeling like he’s in freefall. 

_I love you,_ he thinks, glancing at Aziraphale. Even thinking it makes a thrill lance through him. Anything Aziraphale could say in response to those words is too much. 

Looking at him with this new knowledge makes Crowley want to touch him, to feel his warmth. Being with Aziraphale has always makes him feel warm; Crowley has always thought it was because of his holiness, but maybe it was this, too. Maybe it was always this, his own love for his angel, warming him from his core. 

But he wants to touch him now, wants to hold him, to have his arms and his wings embrace him. Wants to kiss him, he realises, and licks his lips. Wants to touch his infernal lips to Aziraphale’s divine ones and feel fireworks.

He shivers, not unpleasantly. 

They arrive at their destination and Aziraphale pays for the taxi. Crowley watches him give the driver a benevolent smile and a handsome tip before turning the smile on Crowley and turning it up a few notches. It feels like an arrow to the heart, and Crowley rubs at his aching chest. 

“After you,” Aziraphale asks, gesturing at the door and Crowley enters, taking a deep breath and steeling himself against what lies ahead.

Inside, the creperie is just as lovely as promised. Soft lighting, original oak flooring, paintings from local artists on the walls. The music is unobtrusive but lovely, and a waitress with a lacy cream dress and blonde hair in a messy bun greets them warmly as they step through the door. 

“Bonsoir,” she says. “Table for two?”

“Yeah. I’ve got this voucher thing,” Crowley says, unfolding it as he hands it over to her. The instant it’s no longer in his hand, Crowley notices the note Shobana has written on the paper: _It’s a date and I’m telling him I love him so the most romantic table pls!!_. He doesn’t have a heart, but if he did it would be plummeting into his stomach right about now. The waitress notices the note then looks up at him with a conspiratorial smile. 

“Right this way,” she says, and leads them to a corner on the far side of the creperie, near the windows looking over the river. There’s a candle on the table and fairylights on the wall, and it is indeed very romantic. 

“How lovely,” Aziraphale says as they sit, and Crowley looks at him and feels utterly helpless.

“Yes.”

He looks at the menu but can’t even focus enough to read it, so he hands it over to Aziraphale, who studies it carefully. 

It gives Crowley a moment to look at him and feel how much he loves him, the weight of it pulling him down to the earth. How has he never realised it before? It’s strange to look at him and _know_ , but this softness where a human’s heart would be isn’t new. He loves him, he’s loved him for so long that he doesn’t remember a time that he didn’t carry this softness with him; he just didn’t know what it was. But now... Now he’s supposed to tell him. That’s why he’s here. But - maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t have to, maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he can just pretend- 

He’s distracted by the waitress coming over to them, with a smile, and a bottle of wine in her hands. 

“Compliments of the house,” the waitress says. “For such a sweet couple.”

Crowley’s glares at her as she pours it into the glasses, oblivious. He looks over at Aziraphale who is staring at the wine, open mouthed. As soon as she’s gone, Aziraphale gives him a horrified look. Not a good start. 

“C-couple?” 

Crowley swallows. “I - uh-”

“I’m so sorry, Anthony, but I - I’m afraid I’m taken.”

“You - what?” Out of every single thing Crowley had imagined Aziraphale might say, that was not one of them. How - _who!?_ How did Crowley not know about this? Surprise and horror and hurt writhe in his belly.

“Well, I - taken is, perhaps, too strong a word.” He sighs, and sips his wine. “It’s - the friend I told you about. My best friend.”

Crowley blinks. 

“I haven’t told him, you see. It’s-” Aziraphale frowns. “My - my family is religious, and- Well. It’s complicated. But I love him, and I’d like to tell him, one day. You’re a wonderful young man, Anthony, you deserve someone lovely, but-”

“Angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s sentence crashes into a wall. Crowley takes his sunglasses off and Aziraphale’s mouth drops open. 

_“Crowley?”_ Aziraphale’s voice is high pitched. 

“I thought you knew it was me. I thought you were messing with me. Teasing. I thought it was a game and I was damned if I wasn’t going to win. I mean - I’m damned either way.” Crowley can’t help but smile. “I think I did end up winning, though.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, his cheeks pink, and he shakes his head. “I - everything I just said - I don’t - I didn’t-”

Crowley stands as Aziraphale stutters to a stop, and thinks, _he loves me._ It feels exactly like flying. There’s so much more to think about, they have to think this through, but right now all he can think is _he **loves** me!_ He walks around the table on shaking legs as Aziraphale stares at him with wide eyes like he’s waiting for a blow. 

Crowley smiles at him then leans down to kiss him, very gently. The touch of their lips feels like a spark, his infernal aura rubbing up against Aziraphale’s divine one, but it’s not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact, especially when Aziraphale gasps and clutches at Crowley’s shirt so he can’t pull away. His mouth is warm, and the kiss tastes like wine. He’s a surprisingly good kisser, a fact Crowley files away to ask questions about later, but for the moment he just takes advantage of it until they break apart to catch their breath. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and runs a hand through Anthony’s dark hair. He opens his mouth as if to say something else but gives him a hopeless smile instead. “Look at you.”

“Speaking of - do you mind if I change back?”

“Oh, please do. Lovely as the new body is, it’s a little jarring.”

Crowley checks Below aren’t watching him - he doesn’t care about the humans, they won’t notice anything they don’t want to see - and pushes and nudges and shifts his new body until he looks and feels like he used to. He gives a long, relieved sigh and rolls familiar shoulders. After nearly a month as Anthony, it’s a deep relief to be what he’s come to think of as himself again. 

“Better?” He asks, and Aziraphale tugs at his shirt again, making him bend down for another kiss. This one is a little longer, a little deeper, involving Aziraphale’s tongue in his mouth. It’s very, very good. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley’s lips before biting his own, then pushes him away and picking up his wine. “You’re very distracting, Crowley.”

“Thankssss,” Crowley says with a grin and goes back to his seat, putting on his sunglasses. He slouches in his usual way, wine glass in hand, instead of Anthony’s relatively upright position, and enjoys being himself again. 

“Besides,” Aziraphale says. “We should continue this somewhere private-”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise. “Planning to have your wicked way with me?”

“I meant _talking_ , my dear.” He sips his wine, then meets Crowley’s eyes. “But perhaps the other thing, too.”

Crowley chokes on his wine. How is it that Aziraphale - staid, stolid, _boring_ Aziraphale - keeps catching him so off guard? 

“Now, Crowley, be careful.” He’s smirking, the bastard. “You might get in trouble if you discorporate again so soon.”

“You keep talking about sex, and I might discorporate anyway.”

“Then just imagine how you’ll feel actually _doing_ it.”

“Nghh,” Crowley says, and chugs down his glass of wine while Aziraphale smirks at him. 

“In all seriousness though, we _should_ talk. This is - this is quite a big thing, after all.”

“Probably,” Crowley says. Talking’s not his favourite thing but embarking on a romantic relationship with a fellow immortal that he’s been friends with for millennia but who should, in fact, be his deadly enemy, is - well, it’s a lot, isn’t it? A Hell of a lot, quite literally.

“And then - well, we’ll see how the night goes, but I hope it at least involves more kissing.”

“It definitely will,” Crowley promises. 

“And… more?”

Crowley swallows. “I’d like that. Have you ever-”

Before he can finish the question - probably for the best - the waitress returns, and glances at the two of them with a frown. 

“Oh, I- Where’s…?”

“The young bloke who just found out he was on a date with my husband?” Crowley says, surprising even himself with how easily the word slips off his tongue, and how much he likes it. “He scarpered.”

“Oh no,” she says, putting a hand to her mouth, and Crowley waves a dismissive hand. 

“The kid didn’t know Az was married, and Az didn’t know it was a date. It was a bit of a mess, really.”

 _Az?_ Aziraphale mouths at him. 

“But since we’re here, we will have crepes, won’t we, angel?” 

“Without question, my dear.”

They order and Aziraphale looks at him, still a bit bewildered. _“Az?”_

“Do you even _have_ a proper first name, Mr. Fell? What does the AZ stand for?”

“On my tax records, it’s Aloyisius Zachariah.”

Crowley recoils. “And you had a problem with me calling myself Anthony!?”

“I have to keep changing it, and there are only so many names that begin with A.”

Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head. 

“So,” Aziraphale says, sipping at his wine delicately. “You - you love me.”

Crowley shrugs, but he’s smiling too. “You’re pretty loveable.”

Aziraphale nods, then puts his wine down and reaches across the table to take Crowley’s hands in his own. “I love you, too, you know.” He looks Crowley right in the eyes as he speaks, and Crowley’s smile is instant and automatic as his heart soars. “I realised when you saved the books for me. In the church.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re a demon, Crowley. I didn’t think there was any way you could love me back.”

“I didn’t think you could love _me_ because I’m a demon.”

“I suppose we’re both defying expectations, then.”

Crowley thinks back on the last six thousand years and snorts. “Sounds about right.”

-

The crepes are very good. 

When they go back to the bookshop, things get even better. Crowley didn’t even know that Aziraphale had a bed in there, but they make very good use of it. 

The talking happens after, in that bed, with the two of them naked and their bodies entwined. Their words are soft, and hesitant; forever is a very long time when it really does mean forever. But Crowley can’t imagine existence without Aziraphale in it. Now that he’s realised he loves him, he can’t imagine a world without that, either. But there’s the whole angel/demon thing and everything that could happen if they’re found out. 

“I mean,” Crowley says, and licks his lips. “Falling, it’s - it’s not exactly fun. It’s – if anything like that happened to you because of _me,_ I don’t know if-“

“It’s my choice, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, soft but certain. “And I choose you. Knowing everything that might mean, I choose this.”

“Me too,” Crowley says, heart hammering, but he’s just as certain. Whatever Hell might do to him if they find out, he chooses Aziraphale. Chooses this, chooses _them_. Lifting a hand to his angel’s hair, he strokes the curls. “Come what may.”

They kiss again, and Crowley thinks that of all the pleasures of the world and the flesh, this might be his very favourite. 

“So,” he says, lifting a hand and tracing Aziraphale’s lips with his fingers. “We’re really doing this?”

“We already did,” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s fingers and then smirking. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to doing it again.”

Crowley laughs and realises he’s _happy_. It’s not a common occurrence so when he realises he pauses, taking a moment to relish it. 

And then he pulls Aziraphale on top of him again and smiles up at him. 

“Me neither, angel.”

Again and again, for as long as they’ve got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life got in the way and all that. There will be an epilogue, hopefully in the next week or so. Infinite thanks to all you lovely readers <3
> 
> As always, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain) and [tumblr.](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/)


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